Stay
by Grey Pigeon
Summary: Faramir asked him to stay. Simple as that...?


STAY

by Grey Pigeon

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DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Tolkien, of course.

RATING: M

CHARACTERS: Aragorn, Faramir

WARNING: Slash. Some fluff too, I suppose.

GENRE: Romance

TIMELINE: Takes place after Aragorn's coronation.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My dearest friend, you always remind me to take care of myself. This little fic is dedicated to your good, caring self with sincere thanks and best wishes.^^ Lots of blessings, Geale!

1300-words. Especially for you, I restrained my brain. It was supposed to 1000, but it was impossible. Do you know how much attention each word had been given to…?^^"

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Faramir was startled by the sound of the tray being put down on the table. He jumped on his feet to turn around and see the intruder, but was hushed by a gentle voice he came to know so well.

"Easy", he heard him, speaking in a somewhat amused manner.

The air left his lungs with a relieved sigh; when a pair of strong arms embraced him from behind, he tiredly subsided into the hug. The familiar stubble nuzzled the crook of his neck and the wide, knowing hands rested on both sides of his ribcage, pressing down gently, the fingers feeling his flesh up. Faramir opened his eyes slowly and saw his reflection in the window. In the glass he saw the King himself standing behind him.

"What have you been doing today?" Aragorn asked in his low, soft voice.

"Nothing important… I've finished the reports for you, my Lord."

"Is that what kept you so preoccupied not to appear at the meals?" the man drowned his nose in the coppery tresses which were falling down Faramir's shoulders in irregular waves. The Steward didn't answer.

"I have brought you something."

"I know."

"You can't keep that up."

"I just didn't feel like eating in the Hall."

"My Steward loner."

"I'm fine."

"I know," Aragorn's brows went skywards and a gentle kiss clamped Faramir's mouth before any more protests could come forth. "I know you're fine. But I missed you."

His hands were held by the wrists and pulled, so that he walked when his King would lead. Faramir cast a glance towards his neatly made up bed, which would soon become ruffled; how often this piece of furniture had to endure extraordinary nightly activities lately! He was thankful that the bed hadn't decided to creek yet.

Aragorn made his Steward sit down and pushed him on his chest, so that he fell onto the mattress with his hands spread haphazardly. Faramir laughed when Aragorn climbed up to straddle his hips; he looked so young, boyish eyen, and impossibly alluring.

"I missed you," he repeated throatily. "You are not leaving my side for a couple of days to come."

"And who will do the paperwork?" Faramir asked teasingly, observing Aragorn's hands undoing the ties of his shirt and pushing the fabric up through his head, then tossing it on the floor.

"Someone else," Aragorn growled, reaching for the laces of Faramir's leggings.

The man stilled his hand, feeling laughter welling up inside him at the King's impatience. "Not so fast," he said, smiling. Aragorn closed his eyes briefly, but smiled as well and gave his younger lover a thorough, approving glance.

His fingers entwined with Faramir's for a moment, and the hand that had been halted picked up a new trail, this time up his partner's forearm. Aragorn's eyes changed in an instant as he took in the sight of the still red, irregular trace of the burn Faramir's hand bore. His lips went into a thin, angry line and he swallowed visibly. He held the hand in the air, slowly caressing the mistreated skin.

Their eyes met. Gray ones and green ones.

"All right, let's go faster," Faramir sighed.

"Faramir." The King of Men shook his head sadly, but encountering no response, he leaned in to hover above him. The toe-curling kiss that was given chased all possible thought from Faramir's head, leaving only contentment and happy anticipation.

"I'm going to take care of you."

"You already did, remember?" Faramir reminded gently, lifting his hands up to fight with the burgundy velvet that was certainly going to disturb, even if it looked really nice on Aragorn's shoulders.

"That's decided. I'm taking care of you."

The remaining grey leggings were tugged open, then pulled down Faramir's legs. Aragorn propped himself on one hand, dragging his mouth from the small navel up to give attention to the dark, twin buds of nipples. Faramir's chest rose in a sigh and his fingers drowned in the unruly, dark locks that surrounded Aragorn's head. He looked so much better without any silver crown; he looked so much better in a loose nightshirt and no trousers on. Perfect.

"What would you like?" Aragorn breathed in his ear. Faramir muttered something that made no sense, busy with kissing Aragorn's neck.

The king put his palm flat on Faramir's chest and pressed him down to the mattress, moving to kneel between his legs. He obeyed, panting slightly, knowing what Aragorn was planning, yet gasping loud nevertheless when his shaft was surrounded by the wet heat of his lover's mouth.

Not exactly knowing why, he felt tears in the corners of his eyes. The ceiling couldn't have been that fascinatingly beautiful; it had to be something else.

When Aragorn prepared him carefully and lifted his legs up to slide into him in one, slow, smooth movement, his ability to see was taken away for a moment. He closed his eyes anyway, reaching blindly for his _hope_, gripping hard what he supposed were Aragorn's shoulders. All what mattered was the steady rhythm of his thrusts; the abandon, the gentleness, and the admiration.

For him.

So that was possible?

Faramir was pretty sure such a combination had a different, collective name, but could not really bring himself to say it, even in his thoughts.

But he was getting there.

Aragorn was a sweated, heavy, hot weight on top of him. His breath was blowing into the shell of Faramir's ear with a loud 'huffff' that was slowly becoming quieter and more steady, until it subsided completely. The Steward was tracing lazy patterns on his king's shoulder blade, as far as he could reach with his hands entrapped beneath Aragorn's torso, but soon all movement stopped making sense. The silence engulfed them so thickly that Faramir had an impression that even the time stopped to care.

Finally, a merciful candle flame prompted him back to the real world. It flickered and began withering, to shrink into one small drop of heat at the end of the wick and die down.

"Stay," Faramir murmured.

Aragorn stirred.

He rose onto one elbow, noted with satisfaction the sticky release on Faramir's belly, kissed him briefly in the temple and stood up. Faramir was confused.

When he quickly stepped back into his garments and made for the door, the younger man could only stare at him with round opened eyes, not really knowing how he should behave. His mouth fell agape. The door shut and Aragorn was gone with not so much as a glance back.

The minutes passed agonizingly slowly. Faramir rubbed his belly off with the white sheet and sat up; the shock was slowly subsiding, giving way to the awful feeling that threatened to fill him much more efficiently than his own King did just mere moments ago. He failed to name the powerful sting in his chest, that tasted a lot like betrayal, yet was far more bitter. The joy - and peace - and life - seemed to trickle out of him along with Aragorn's come.

The door suddenly clicked and Faramir all but jumped. There was Aragorn, holding a big feather pillow. He stopped in his tracks, seeing Faramir's expression.

"…For me," he explained, pointing the pillow with a finger.

Faramir felt like hyperventilating. His cheeks must have coloured, for Aragorn chuckled when he approached him, tossed the pillow onto the bed next to Faramir's one and nuzzled his cheekbone.

"I told you it's decided. I'm taking care of you."

Faramir dared a glance directly into Aragorn's eyes.

"Stay?" he tried once more.

"Mhmm," was the only answer before he was tripped over on the bed surface again.

Minas Tirith, 7th September 3019

Tarnobrzeg, 22nd July 2011


End file.
